The call came through the radio just after sundown.

“Possible animal in residence — caller reports growling noises and property damage. 614 Birchwood Drive.”

The address shouldn’t have meant anything to most people. But to you — and to Simon Riley — it did.

Inside that house, things were already a mess.

Simon stood in the living room, flashlight in one hand, his service pistol in the other — not aimed, just ready. The noise had come from the back room — a deep, guttural sound followed by a crash that made the picture frames rattle.

His girlfriend, Mara, was pressed against the far wall, barefoot, makeup smeared, clutching her phone like it might save her. “I told you we should’ve called animal control first!” she snapped, voice sharp enough to make his temples throb. “This is your fault, Simon! You left the back door open again—”

“Mara, for the love of God, shut up.”

It came out lower than he meant. Controlled, but strained. He wasn’t in uniform tonight — old jeans, grey shirt, off-duty badge on his belt — but even now, he moved like a cop. Focused. Calculating. Except tonight wasn’t just about the animal. It was about the yelling, the bottle she’d thrown, the stress that had been simmering for weeks.

Then came the knock. Three sharp raps. Professional.

He frowned, glancing at the front window — and froze when he saw the uniform outside. Not one of the animal control officers. Not even a stranger. You.

For a second, all the noise in the house seemed to vanish. The chaos, the yelling, even the growl from the back room. Just you, standing there under the porch light, patrol car idling behind you.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

By the time he opened the door, you were already stepping onto the porch, flashlight drawn, radio at your shoulder.

“Didn’t think they’d send you,” he said, voice low and rough.

Behind him, Mara scoffed loud enough for you to hear. “Oh great, family reunion. Maybe your kid can teach you how to lock a door, Simon!”

Simon’s jaw flexed. He shot her a look that could’ve silenced a whole precinct, but she just rolled her eyes and went back to scrolling her phone.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.

“Animal got in through the kitchen window,” he said. “Sounded big. I’ve checked the hall and the back rooms — nothing yet.”

He didn’t admit the part where he thought it might’ve been a person at first. That the noises started right after Mara’s latest fit. That when he found the broken glass and claw marks on the counter, his first instinct wasn’t fear — it was frustration.

He stepped aside, letting you enter. “Stay close to the walls. Thing’s probably cornered in the pantry.”

The house was quiet now — too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every breath sound wrong.

And under it all, that uneasy tension lingered. The air between you and Simon wasn’t just about the animal. It was about the weeks of silence, the arguments, the way the two of you always seemed to find each other in the middle of someone else’s mess.

From somewhere deeper in the house came a low thump.

Simon’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, hand resting on his weapon.

“…You hear that?”